


The Lucky Pants

by Anidlepause



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Red Pants, Red Pants Monday, Slash, Wee bit of angst, clean laundry, only because Sherlock is sulker
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 17:31:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/902956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anidlepause/pseuds/Anidlepause
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A surprise on laundry day has Sherlock rethinking his relationship with John Watson and his knowledge of the good doctor's pants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lucky Pants

**Author's Note:**

> In celebration of the 1-year anniversary of Red Pants Monday, I present my own little RPM fic. Red Pants Monday was started by the glorius Reapersun (check her out -http://reapersun.tumblr.com/-) and has been celebrated every Monday since it's fateful incarnation on tumblr. 
> 
> This work has no beta, thus, all errors are mine.

Sherlock was attempting to distract himself from his complete and utter lack of a case by making a study of different acid burns on flesh.  He normally enjoyed experiments that involved caustic materials; there was something rather charming about the sizzle and burn of it.  Not that he would ever voice that pleasure, he was fairly certain that John would sort that into the, ‘ _Bit not good’,_ column that Sherlock knew the good doctor was constantly tallying in his mind.  But his acid test was proving to not be a suitable enough distraction.  As of late, very little of his old pleasures were.  If he wasn’t on a case or arguing with John, he was dreadfully bored. 

He didn’t enjoy upsetting John, not truly upsetting him, but he enjoyed their smaller ‘ _domestics’,_ as Mrs. Hudson would call them.  A little fight over rotten flesh left out on the table, a tiff having to do with proper board game etiquette, the unexplainable disappearances of certain articles of John’s wardrobe that Sherlock deemed unflattering; these were the fights that he liked to have with John.  There was a certain pleasure to be found in ruffling the doctor’s feathers.  He would become flushed, a rose color that would start at the base of his throat and then work his way up his cheeks and then outwards to brighten the tips of his ears.  (Sometimes Sherlock wondered if those red ears would be hot to the touch.)  The older man would become more and more exasperated during the argument and eventually he would barely be able to form complete sentences.  At that point John would devolve into sputtering bursts of argument, ‘ _But that’s-, Sherlock, -can’t be serious!’_

It was ever so much fun.

Sherlock left the table in a state of disrepair as he sought out John.  His flatmate was on the sofa, folding freshly laundered clothes, and watching some inane program on the telly where an unattractive woman was trying to convince a studio audience that she really did love her husband even though she was engaging in sexual relations with eight other men and two women (though not at the same time).  John was mysteriously enthralled with the program and did not even acknowledge Sherlock’s approach. 

That was quite unacceptable.

Sherlock was about to rectify that bit of indecorum by launching into yet another diatribe about John’s taste-lacking clothes when Sherlock was distracted by a flash of red in John’s hands.  The man was folding a pair of pants; a _red_ pair of pants. 

**Red** [red]

_Noun_

  1.  Any of various colors resembling the color of blood; the primary color at one extreme end of the visible spectrum, an effect of light with a wavelength between 610 and 780 nm.
  2. Something red.
  3. A radical leftist in politics especially a communist.



American fire trucks were red.  Apples and other assorted berries were red.  Red lipstick stains on the collars of adulterers.  Cars were red.  Towels were red.  Festive holiday jumpers were red.  Just about anything could be red, pants included. 

_Red, scarlet, crimson, burgundy, maroon, flame, amaranth, carmine, carnelian_ -

Sherlock’s mind stuttered to a halt.

“John,” Sherlock was shell-shocked, “What are those?”

The other man jumped, surprised by Sherlock’s question, and then looked down at his hands.  A flush climbed up from his neck and he quickly finished folding the pants in question before shoving them into the middle of a stack of folded jumpers.  “Um, just a pair of pants, Sherlock”, He replied.

Sherlock stepped into John’s line of sight with the television.  “Why are they red?”

John still appeared to be embarrassed, his ears were red, but it was fading.  He leaned slightly to the left in order to look around Sherlock; a fight was erupting on-stage behind the detective.  “I like red.”

“No,” Sherlock moved with John’s tilt in order to remain the primary focal point.  “No, you do not wear red pants.  I have seen your pants.  You do not wear red ones.” 

Sherlock accepted that he had not seen _all_ of John’s pants, but he had certainly seen enough to make an educated assumption that John always wore crisp, white pants.  It was not that Sherlock made a habit of noticing what type of pants John wears, Sherlock knows enough about social decorum to understand that that would be _inappropriate_ , but they were flatmates and one becomes aware of these things over time.  Sherlock had lost count of the number of times John had rushed down the stairs half-dressed with a fire extinguisher to take care of a little experimental flame-up that Sherlock had perfectly under control.  There had also been a few times when Sherlock had accidentally spilled corrosive liquid onto John preceding him leaving for work which always necessitated an immediate removal of clothing.  Not that Sherlock did that on purpose, of course, but accidents do happen.  So, while Sherlock did not consider himself an out-right expert on John’s pants, he felt fairly confident that John and red pants was an odd occurrence.    

“Well, obviously _you_ have not seen them all, and I do, on occasion, wear red pants.”  John was frowning at him now.  “I am watching this program, you do realize?”

Sherlock’s mind cycled through John’s reply very quickly.  “You say that I have not seen them all, implying that while I have not seen them all, others have.  So, where would you wear red pants when someone else might see them?”

John slouched back into the sofa folding his arms across his chest.  His flush had faded away but a new rosy tinge of discomfiture was teasing around his collar.  He seemed to give up on his program and studied the ceiling.  “Sherlock,” he asked, “What _is_ that on the ceiling?”

Sherlock dismissed the collection of ancient wasp nests that he had assembled the night before around three am with a wave of his hand, “Not important.  Now answer the question.”

“There aren’t any living bugs, are there?  I’m not fond of wasps.”

Sherlock snapped, “The pants, John!”

“Er- I wear them on dates.”

Special pants on dates; Sherlock frowned as he mulled this information over.  John wore special pants, red pants, (that Sherlock never gets to see) on dates.  This would imply that John goes on these dates, wearing his special red pants, hoping that his date will get to see said pants and enjoy the sight of John in nothing but his red pants.  “Oh, I see.” 

John rolled his eyes.  “You’ve worked it out, Sherlock.” He got to his feet and gathered his folded laundry in his arms.  There was a scowl on his face which indicated to Sherlock that this conversation was going in the _‘Bit not good_ ’ column.  “I have a pair of lucky pants that I wear when I’m hoping to get ‘lucky’.  Are you satisfied now?” 

Sherlock watched John sweep out of the room and up the stairs, balancing his clothes as he went.  There was a flash of red from the middle of the stack when John turned on the landing and then John, his laundry, and his lucky red pants disappeared from view.

And Sherlock realized that no, he wasn’t satisfied at all. 

 

~*~

 

It was two months after that first glimpse of the red pants that Sherlock managed another peek. 

He had spent a fair amount of time thinking about the pants, though.  John had told him that they were lucky and helped him ‘get lucky’, which was a ridiculous supposition.  John, as a doctor, _as a man of science_ , should know better than that.  Luck wasn’t real.  John’s ability to ‘get lucky’, such as it was, relied entirely on his charm and affable appearance.  Not to mention that John exuded reliability and loyalty to such an extreme that surely everyone must be aware of it and find him attractive for it.  No, John’s ability to woo the fairer sex into bed had nothing to do with a ridiculous pair of red pants. 

And yet, the very thought of them irritated Sherlock.  They made him think strange things that Sherlock did not quite understand.  He wanted John to wear the red pants, he wanted John to feel confident about himself and his prowess, but he did not want John to leave the flat in them.  He did not want John relying on the belief that his pants were a lucky charm.  He wanted John to realize that he had more than enough attributes to be a desirable mate, he did not need luck.  And, oddly, while he found that he did not want anyone else to see John in his red pants, he would very much like to. 

John had been seeing a new woman.  Sherlock had not yet met her, John had apparently learned to keep his dates away from his flatmate, but he was sure that she was just as insufferable as the rest.  Her name was something dreadfully sugary like Candy, or Mandy, or Sandy.  Sherlock did not understand why John insisted on dating so far below his level of worth.  If he was only going out in search of sex (would he wear the pants every time?) it would be more understandable.  But while John was probably not opposed to meaningless, one-off sexual encounters, he always seemed to be seeking a more lasting connection.  Sherlock questioned the practicality of this aim.  John hardly had time to balance his time as a doctor, his time with Sherlock on cases, and just his general time with Sherlock.  How did he expect to squeeze a relationship with a woman into the equation?  It really was not fair of John to expect Sherlock to share John’s attention with someone so unworthy and droll.

In fact, Sherlock was feeling more than a little put-out that John had a date that very evening with Brandy.  He had already planned their evening.  He was going to go over a few cold cases that Lestrade had given him (rather thoughtful of the D.I. since it had been a slow crime week) while John worked on the blog.  Then they were going to watch that ridiculous drama that John enjoyed.  They would order takeaway and John could spend some time annoying Sherlock into eating.  After dinner Sherlock would play his violin while John sat in his chair and read a tediously boring paperback.  Sherlock had been looking rather forward to it. 

But then John had told him of his date.  It was incredibly inconsiderate of him, really, Sherlock had told him of his plans that very morning.  It was not Sherlock’s fault that John had not been in the flat to hear them.  John liked to talk about feelings and personal expectations.  Sherlock supposed that he should tell his flatmate how rude and unacceptable his behavior was.  And all because of that dratted Wendy he was dating.

So, Sherlock felt quite justified in pushing open the door to the loo while John was still inside.  The plumbing had quieted down so Sherlock knew that John was out of the shower and the door had been opened a crack to let out the steam (John became quite irate if Sherlock went into the bathroom while John was in the shower or the door was fully shut) so there was no reason for John to be upset by Sherlock’s presence.  But whatever it was that Sherlock felt John had needed to know right that moment vanished from his mind as he looked at his flatmate.

John had just finished shaving.  There were a few traces of white cream on his face and he still held the razor in his hand.  He was not wearing a shirt and his wet hair was sending small rivulets of moisture down his compact and muscular chest.  He was wearing trousers but they were undone and the belt was unfastened.  He had obviously intended to put on a shirt before finishing them up so they currently rested low on his hips.  But what really drew Sherlock’s gaze was the inch of red hugging John’s hips above the band of his pants.

“Sherlock,” John was only mildly exasperated, “We have talked about personal space while I am in the loo.”  He set the razor down and splashed water on his face, washing away the remaining shaving cream. 

“You are wearing the red pants.” Sherlock murmured and he was fascinated to see that John’s blush started much further down on his body than he had originally thought.  He had only ever seen it from the neck up.

John blotted at his face with a folded towel, “Well, yeah, I have a date tonight.  I told you that.”

The date, of course, with Mandy/Brandy/Candy; Sherlock was inexplicably angry.  She was going to get to see and Sherlock was not.  She was going to get to see all of John, in his lucky red pants, if she wanted and Sherlock- well, Sherlock was not.

It was not fair and thus was intolerable to the detective.

“I want to see.” He told the doctor.

John was rummaging in the cabinet on the wall not looking at Sherlock.  He withdrew a small bottle of aftershave and applied it to his face, frowning at the sting.  “What do you want to see?”

Sherlock prowled forward, not liking that John wasn’t looking at him but pleased by the lingering blush.  His hands landed on John’s hips and he looped his thumbs into the waistband of his undone trousers.  “The pants, John, I want to see the pants.”

John attempted to squirm away while yelping, “Sherlock!  Get off!  What do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock pulled on the loosened trousers attempting to get them further down in order to get a better view.  If they were going to be on display tonight he was at least going to have the first peek.  “I want to see them, John, it’s not fair that she gets to and I do not.”

It was a small space and both men were struggling for dominance.  John was attempting to keep his trousers up while Sherlock wanted them _down_.  It was hardly any wonder that they both ended up on the damp, tile floor with John’s trousers around his knees.  John, at this point, had given up rational arguments and was simply swearing at Sherlock.  Sherlock, feeling the acquiescence in John’s body pulled back so that he was straddling John’s knees.  He had a much better view now.  The pants were still the same red pants that Sherlock had seen two months ago but they were different, somehow.  Before they had been attention-drawing and amusing, the idea of John wearing pants such as these had bordered on ludicrous.  But now that Sherlock was looking at them again, looking at them while they were _on_ John, they did not seem funny at all.  They fit him well, perhaps just a touch too tight, but that was probably intentional.  They clung nicely along the edge of his penis and Sherlock could understand why he chose to wear these on dates; they were very flattering. 

And then Sherlock realized that while he was looking he was not actually seeing; because John was half- hard and (an even more surprising realization) he was as well. 

 John had thrown one arm over his face, blocking his eyes from view, as if too embarrassed to look at Sherlock.  “You’ve seen them, now let me up.”  He ordered but his tone was weak.

Sherlock placed his hands on John’s thighs, a few inches above his knees, and studied him.  The good doctor’s entire body had gone a bright shade of pink.  It was fascinating how a man with a decent tan could blush as much John was able to.  Sherlock said nothing; just watched and then casually, as if he was not even thinking about it, he brushed his thumbs up and down along the inner skin of John’s thighs.  John jumped but did not push Sherlock away.  Sherlock continued to watch and rub and think. 

It made more sense now, his fascination with the red pants.  He was attracted to John.  Really, now that he had figured it out the whole thing was blindingly obvious.  He enjoyed being with John.  He enjoyed working with John, talking with John, laughing with John, and fighting with John.  It was only logical that he would also enjoy sex with John.  The next step would normally have been to find out if John might feel in a similar fashion (he did have that worrisome habit of proclaiming his heterosexuality to anyone that would listen) but from the twitching his body was doing in accordance to the light stroking that Sherlock was responsible for that question had already been answered.  So, there really was nothing left to talk about, things could proceed naturally from here.

Sherlock leaned up and pressed his face right into the juncture where John’s thigh met the rest of his body and ran his tongue up the crease.  John jumped so hard at the sudden contact that if Sherlock had not had such a strong grip on the man’s thighs he would have been knocked off.  Sherlock could feel the hot, twitching presence of John’s cock near the side of his face but he continued to lathe at the skin along John’s inner thigh. 

John moaned, his face still hidden by one arm, but his other had lowered towards Sherlock’s head and he reached tentatively towards him but did not touch.  Sherlock stared at the hand as he licked and bit along John’s hip, pulling the red fabric into his mouth.  He knew that hand wanted to bury itself into his hair.  It wanted to tangle in his curls and pull him closer.  It wanted to drag his mouth up to John’s but it was hesitating and the hesitation worried Sherlock.  

“Sherlock-“

He did not want to be stopped.  Sherlock frowned against his doctor.  He wanted that hand in his hair.  He wanted to kiss him.  He wanted to suck John’s cock into his mouth before having sex on the floor of the loo.  Sherlock turned his attentions towards his ultimate goal and nosed against the tight, red fabric withholding John from him. 

John squirmed and began to make incoherent sounds as Sherlock lipped and nipped along his length through the pants.  He could spend hours, days; years listening to John make those sounds.  Moisture was beginning to seep through, staining the red a darker color, and Sherlock felt desperate for a taste.  He did not think that he had ever been so hard. 

Sherlock gripped the waistband with one hand and began to pull down.  He was not going to deny either John or himself this treat.  But then John was pushing him away, pulling away.

“Stop, stop, Sherlock, please.” 

That hovering hand finally came to land, not in his hair as he had hoped, but on his shoulder and John pushed him away.      

Sherlock sat back.  It may have been the hardest thing that he had ever done. 

John squirmed his way out from under Sherlock and pulled his trousers up.  “I-I’m sorry.  I can’t.”  He wasn’t looking at Sherlock as he buttoned the red pants away from view.  “I have to meet Tandy and I can’t, right now.”  He got to his feet.  “I’m sorry, Sherlock.” 

And then John left.  He left the bathroom.  He left the flat.  He left Sherlock. 

 

~*~

 

Sherlock was in his room with the door closed and the lights off when John returned home later that night.  It was not terribly late so Sherlock knew that it was safe to assume that Tandy did not get _lucky_.  There was a small flare of triumph at that.  But it was a minor victory.  Sherlock lay on his bed and studied the ceiling while he listened to John prowl the flat.  He was not sure how he had misjudged the situation so terribly. 

Despite what others may think he was not entirely inexperienced in the matters of sex and attraction.  He had done a certain amount of experimenting when he was at Uni and there had been a few occasions later on when Mycroft had frozen his accounts and he had needed a hit so bad that fifteen minutes spent kneeling on the floor of a grimy restroom seemed like a fair exchange.  But it had all been rather tedious.  They would want to talk, or push too hard or not hard enough; the words whispered in the dark were too soft or too cruel.  He had found no greater thrill having sex with another person than he did with himself.  And as he had gotten older the need to relieve that urge lessened until he could go months without even thinking of getting off. 

But John had changed things.    

Sherlock knew, with a deeply rooted certainty, that sex with John would be perfect.  John would know what to say and what not to say.  He would be sweet in his own John-like way and he would never be cruel (unless Sherlock asked him very nicely).  It was true that Sherlock had not consciously considered sex with John until that very afternoon but now that he was considering it he realized that there was some part of his subconscious that had known the possibility that John presented from the very start.  Sherlock could see it all now, looking back, the times he touched when he had not needed to, the way that he always sought John’s attention, his need for John’s approval; even the quiet, constant fear that he might push John too hard and force the doctor to leave all spoke to Sherlock’s growing attraction. 

John was not innocent of this behavior either.  The good doctor had displayed signs of attraction from the very beginning of their acquaintance.  Sherlock was positive that he had not misread the man.  And today, in the loo, John had been _hard_.  He had not faked that erection.  His heightened pulse and embarrassment all pointed to one outcome. 

And yet, he had pushed Sherlock away.

There were steps in the hall.  Sherlock listened as John paused outside of his bedroom door.  He counted the seconds silently, wondering what John was thinking, wishing that he had telepathic powers.  What would he do if John knocked on that door?  Would he tumble into bed with him?  Would Sherlock turn him away for making him the second runner-up in the contest for John’s attentions?

After an interminable length of time the floor boards creaked and John turned away.  Sherlock listened as he climbed the stairs to his room slowly, so slowly.  There was the creak of a door opening and then a slam that was a bit fiercer than necessary.  There were no more noises in the flat that evening.

**Author's Note:**

> Kudos and reviews are much appreciated! I can be found on tumblr at http://anidlepause.tumblr.com/.


End file.
